Equilibrium
by SugarSnaps037
Summary: Au(ish)/Missing scene for The Empty Hearse. After the reunion and after they sorted things out, John is still feeling a little off balance. He just might have to do something about that.


**Hey everybody. I know I kind of fell of the grid for a while, but hey, school, work, life, have to fit that in somewhere right. So, I've written this neat little one shot and I hope you like it. Oh, and a great thanks to my beta Zorpox.**

**Two things – First, this is a bit au. I know in the series Mrs. Hudson said she put all of Sherlock's things in boxes after his supposed death, but in the books Mycroft continues to maintain the apartment until Sherlock returns. I went with that because it just fit better with my idea.**

**Second – I know full well that the first line of this fic isn't entirely original. It is my spin on a line said by the character Bob in the Dresden Files series. I loved the line (and the show. Don't know why they cancelled it) so I am sort of paying homage to it.**

Equilibrium 

The case was solved, the villain was vanquished, and the earth continued its regular turn around the sun. Hurrah.

Most would celebrate such an event, but to one John Watson, it all seemed as minor details. The real news was that just a few short days ago the world's only consulting detective, not to mention John's best friend, managed to resurrect himself after two long years of supposed suicide. Oh John had been angry at first, or at least that was the emotion he allowed to reach the surface (the others had been too complicated at the time). Of course, Sherlock had sported a fine bloodied nose for it. Inevitably though, John knew, even if only subconsciously, that it was only a matter of time before he returned to the detective's side.

So it was that now he occupied the familiar living space of 221B, sitting in a familiar armchair, sipping tea from a familiar cup. It was all familiar and yet, it wasn't. The familiarity was comforting (and oh how he had ached for it), but after two years of adjusting to a life without the whirlwind that was Sherlock, John's mind would not easily relinquish the new pattern it had become accustomed to. So what could he do about it? John pondered this while he watched Sherlock rummage through the kitchen cupboards, ensuring that everything had been left in its place.

"Sherlock," he called, "Was everything truly left as it had been two years ago?"

Sherlock perused a cabinet at the edge of the kitchen before shutting it and tossing himself onto the couch, seemingly satisfied with his task. "Yes. Mycroft continued to pay rent with explicit instructions that nothing should be touched, and assuming that Mrs. Hudson didn't play housekeeper…" he trailed off, his lips giving a slight quirk at the old joke.

Greg Lestrade, who had joined the duo in returning to Baker Street after they had all finished the case, spoke up. "So you mean Mrs. Hudson has been collecting rent on an empty apartment for two years?" he said, not really buying it. "Didn't she think that was, I don't know, odd?"

"Most likely she mistakenly assumed it was my brother's way of handling grief," Sherlock replied offhandedly.

John tilted his head and thought for a moment. "Right then," he said as he pushed himself from the armchair and disappeared out of the living room. When he returned he stood squarely in the doorway with a rather large sledgehammer straddled between his hands. "Greg, you might want to join me," he declared. "I think you'll want to see this." And with that, John turned toward the stairs and trotted out the door.

It was a moment before they could do anything but stare. Once the awe subsided, however, both men donned their jackets and followed on the coattails of the sandy blond. "Where do you keep such a large hammer?" Lestrade wondered as they emptied onto the London streets.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock replied, "Right next to the harpoon," and then said no more.

John smiled to himself as he heard two sets of footfalls trailing behind him. There had been no need to waste breath inviting Sherlock. The mystery would have been far too enticing for the detective. "Some things never change," he happily whispered to himself. _And some things are never meant to. _

During the walk, John had shifted the hammer so that the head was resting comfortably against his shoulder, bobbing along as they drew closer to their destination. He instinctively knew that the sharp, but quiet, inhale he heard behind him belonged to Sherlock. By now, all of the bits and pieces the man's mind rapidly digested were clicking into place, revealing John's plan in crystal clarity. John had entered this place far too often in recent years and each time was as difficult as the last. There was no hesitation in his stride this evening, though. His mission was set, his resolve unwavering.

The cemetery was lit with the incandescent glow of intermittent street lamps. Despite what any horror movie would insist, graveyards at night were not creepy, or ominous, or even scary. To John they were quiet, almost serene. There was an untouched peace here. The living are only shadows in the land of the dead with no power to affect it. So it made perfect sense that a cemetery's most striking feature is its heartbreaking solitude. No one disturbed a man standing by a grave.

But this night would be different, John would make certain of it. He approached the obsidian marker that had been the bane of the doctor's existence for two years and stared into its cold, glossy surface. His solitary reflection had mocked him with its overlay of Sherlock's name, insisting that his closest friend, the wily detective, would never really be gone. John gave a short huff of laughter at the irony. After all, Sherlock had returned, hadn't he? As if to reassure John, Sherlock's image emerged as the man came to stand behind the doctor's left shoulder. DI Lestrade rooted himself on the right.

"So…" Greg drawled as the silence stretched out to an uncomfortable length, "We're staring at Sherlock's grave."

John affirmed with a curt "Mm hmm."

When no further reply was forthcoming, Greg tried again. "Empty grave, really," he ventured. "We should probably tell someone to remove it."

John looked up as a coy smile spread across his face. "You know, I was thinking that same thing," he said. "You two might want to step back."

"Wait! What?" the random request startled the DI, but he was aware enough to hastily backpedal a bit as John turned to be nearly perpendicular with the stone. Sherlock did the same as Lestrade, albeit less franticly. He knew exactly what was coming.

John stacked his hands near the end of the handle and pulled it as far back as his body would allow. His muscles along his shoulders and back stretched almost to the point of straining. He was like a fisherman making a perfect cast. Then, in one deft move, John swung the hammer forward, straight into the corner of Sherlock's gravestone. The strength of the blow sent the corner careening through the air, nearly colliding with another marker, and John found the resounding crunch as metal obliterated stone intensely satisfying. A cheshire grin cascaded across his face as he turned to his two late night companions.

Sherlock wore a tight smirk that held equal parts mirth and caution. John needed this and Sherlock would be dammed if he didn't let the man have it. However, John was a military man; neat, orderly, and always in control. There was something wildly destructive in what he was doing that unsettled the detective. Still, Sherlock certainly would not object to the removal of that hideous, black slab.

Lestrade, for his part, looked appropriately stunned and more than a bit awestruck. He knew John to be capable of some crazy stunts, but it was rare to see him initiate those stunts. That tended to be Sherlock's department, and said man's two year absence only further subdued the humble doctor. Now Greg saw a fire radiating from John that encased his entire being. A fire Greg realized he had sorely missed.

John stood back to admire his handiwork. "Right then," he stated for the second time that evening, "your turn Greg." He held the hammer toward the flabbergasted D.I.

"Umm…No, I'm fine thanks," he replied, eying the proffered hammer warily.

John was having none of it, however, as he said, "Don't be silly. You wanted this about as much as I did."

Though Lestrade doubted that statement – no one could have wanted Sherlock's return near as much as John – he had to admit that it was supremely satisfying to see that lifeless stone smashed. Still, as a lawman, he couldn't just go around busting up private property on a whim. "I don't think this is exactly legal," he protested.

"Of course it is," Sherlock, who till now had been standing a silent sentry, voiced from behind. "It is mine after all."

The way he said that last bit struck Greg. The words were near a whisper, but thick and heavy so they settled into the deep dark of the night. Sherlock attempted to lace his words with the sarcasm and superiority that was his custom, but to Greg, the words simply sounded sad. Lonely even, and that just didn't sit right. He tore the hammer from John's hand, wound up and swung. The top left corner flew in a wide arc and shattered spectacularly when it hit the nearby walkway.

"That was good," John murmured, nearly purring like a pleased tiger. "Very good. Alright Sherlock, finish it."

For once, the shrewd sleuth who could deduce the life story of a person in a glance and nearly always remained several steps ahead of the entire population was baffled. "What?" was all he could think to say and he cursed his mind for being so obvious.

"Come on now," John pressed, "take off the rest of it."

Sherlock looked at his friend. Face even, shoulders squarely set, stance wide and firm, everything about him announced a calm determination. Everything, but his eyes. His pupils, dilated with excitement, moved back and forth over Sherlock with an unchecked energy. John wanted nothing more than to break the barrier erected by that grotesque monolith. And yet, John deserved so much more than this. "This is for you John," Sherlock decided. "You should – "

"No!" John spoke it as a command only an army captain could give. His eyes remained on Sherlock as he held out his hand to Lestrade. The D.I. silently passed the hammer over to John, who then marched up to Sherlock and leveled the detective with a hard stare. "Two years, Sherlock. Two years of loneliness. Two years without a best friend. Two years without Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson and complaining about the violin at four in the morning. Two years without clever schemes and late night chases and random texts about danger and picking up the milk. Two years on your own, Sherlock."

Sherlock started at this. Not for the first time, he marveled at John's ability to surprise him. Of course, he was right. Sherlock intentionally focused on alleviating John's anguish, repairing what he was forced to break, so that he would forget the bleak hell that had been his life. No, not forget. Merely tuck away in the deepest recesses of his mind palace. Never forget. But there was more John wasn't saying. This wouldn't be just for Sherlock's benefit. John needed Sherlock to deal the finishing blow. Eradicate any notion of the death of the world's only consulting detective. Declare to the world that Sherlock was back and would remain.

Tentatively, Sherlock reached out his hand, ghosting his fingers over the hammer's handle. He pulled it from John, encountering no resistance, and walked forward. He gazed at his headstone, which was now half of what it used to be. Jagged edges now marred what were once crisp, clean lines. Mycroft had chosen it, and oh how Sherlock hated it. From that first day in the cemetery, John giving it a proper salute with his perfectly executed about face. It might as well have been a bloody mountain for its ability to keep him and John apart. Suddenly, Sherlock was filled with an intense anger. In a move that seemed so natural in its fluidity, Sherlock lifted the hammer above his head and brought it down on the offending obelisk. Again he swung it up and again he brought it down. Again and again and again he did this until what was solid stone became fine powder scattered like dust on the grass. He continued until his arms trembled and his hands cramped with his tight grip. When he was finished, when he felt his duty was done, he backed away on shaky legs and allowed the hammer to slip casually from his hand. Then, he all but collapsed in a seated position on the ground. John came to sit by his right side as Lestrade settled down on his left. For a long time none spoke, each enjoying the companionable silence.

"So," Lestrade ventured after the silence had drawn long, "that was…" he trailed off, not finding adequate words.

"That was brilliant," Sherlock offered. He looked to John with a truly contented smile.

"That," John declared, "was what I call equilibrium."

**So that's it. Reviews are most welcome, but please no spoilers for the new season. I sadly have not seen it yet.**


End file.
